Obsession (Ilan/Marcel) - Top Chef
Mar. 26th, 2008
03:08 pm - Obsession (Ilan/Marcel)
Fandom: Top Chef (Season 2)
Summary: He wasn't in love, he wasn't lustful, he was just simply obsessed.
Warning(s): Lime/Lemon, slight non-con, probably OOC-ness.
Disclaimer: I don't own Top Chef, Ilan, or Marcel.
(Notes: This is the first fanfic I've written in a while, so it might not be as good as I would like it to be. But I think it came out pretty decent. xD Basically, italics = story, regular = Ilan's POV/narration. Ilan isn't really referring to what's happening in the story, just his relationship with Marcel and what he feels towards him. )
They say that there's a thin line between love and hate. Hate can turn into love. Love can turn into hate.
I guess it's mostly because the two emotions aren't really that different, if you look into them. Both are equally strong emotions, both have equal amounts of passion, and both are just infatuations in disguise.
It's late at night. Both of us are in the living room. He's lounging on the couch, scribbling something down in his notebook.
My eyes scan over him lazily. From his partially worn out sneakers, to his bored expression, to his crazy hairstyle.
He stops writing and looks up. Our eyes meet. Nothing happens for a moment. Then, he cocks an eyebrow at me, "What?"
I give him another quick once over and shake my head, "Nothing."
His feelings towards me were always the same. He either hated me, disliked me, or was just plain indifferent towards me. His feelings of hate, dislike, or any of the sort were never that full of passion. Not like mine were.
I hate him more. Simple as that. And the stronger that hate, the stronger the passion...the stronger the infatuation.
Marcel stares at me uneasily, then goes back to writing. "Then stop staring."
Amused, I can't help but prod him a bit more. "What're you writing? Another rap?"
"Yeah," he says, rolling his eyes.
I hate him. I can't stand him. Really. His cocky attitude, his smug smiles, his annoying cracks, how he thinks that he's better than everyone else there....All of it grinds on my nerves, driving me to do and say things that I wouldn't normally do everyday.
He stops and sighs a bit, exasperated. Putting his notebook down, he gets up to leave. "At least I can write."
I stand up. "What's your problem?"
The effect that he has on me is complicated. It drives me insane.
Yet, there seems to be a certain..thrill to hating him.
He rolls his eyes again. He turns and walks away.
Damn. For a moment, I just stand there and watch. My chest tightens, and my body starts to move on impulse.
One moment I want him to stay as far away as possible from me. The next, I want all of his attention on me, on nothing and nobody else. I find myself...wanting him. In more ways than one.
It basically all goes from a derisive hate, to an enslaving interest. How it comes to be like that, I don't know exactly.
My pace quickens a bit more, gradually closing the distance between me and him.
At first, the transition all happened in a matter of minutes. Then to a matter of seconds. Now, there seems to be no transition at all.
He stops when he notices I'm following him. He abruptly turns around and opens his mouth to say something. Before he can say anything, I pounce on him, cutting off his words. He's up against the wall. My lips press against his.
I want more of him. I want to hold his body against me, so hard that it would hurt. To feel every part of him, physically and emotionally.
He freezes. I take advantage of his shock, letting my hands roam all over him. Taking in every curve, every feature, every inch of smooth, warm skin. Down his sides, under his shirt, up his back, in his hair. One of my hands rests on his ass, grabbing it. I feel him jerk out of his frozen state, gasping. The second he opened his mouth, I dart my tongue inside, deepening the kiss.
I want to know everything about him. What makes him tick, what makes him sad, what turns him on...
He starts thrashing against me, trying to throw me off. I push myself closer, grabbing one of his hands, interwining my fingers in his, pinning it against the wall. My hand on his rear pulls him forward. Our hips grind together. I smirk inwardly as he lets out a muffled groan. I can feel him getting hard.
From every wild lock in his hair, to every sensitive spot on his body....
I pull back. His voice seems to be gone as he tries to regain his breath. My hand strokes his ass as I grind my hips against his again in a slow, thrusting motion. A low curse. Another moan.
His strengths, his weaknesses...
Time passes. We're off the wall. He struggles. I kiss him again.
I want him to be mine.
I push him down on the bed.
It's not love.
I yank down his jeans, boxers and all, exposing him to me completely.
It's not lust.
And I force myself in.
It's just an obsession.